The Lonely Hearts Hotel by Heather O’Neill

I have no words. They were stolen by clowns, put in a New York Theatre and exploded onto a page in Montreal. It was insane, crazy, the best.

                  “A work of art when it is good and completed exists independently of its creator.

It is indignant, even-it doesn’t want to have an author.”

Read it. Rose will devour your soul.


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